They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. He patted the hand on his sleeve. ‘Then it must certainly be Eugénie. ’ *** Martha sniffed dolefully, scrubbing at her reddened eyes with a large square of damp linen.
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